For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  “Come again?” Sean says with a sneer.

  “There’s a tape,” I bluff. “A recording from the night of Terrance’s murder. Hand it over.”

  “If there was, I sure as hell wouldn’t have it.” The corner of Sean’s mouth twitches.

  “But you did have it.”

  He presses his lips together, which is all the confirmation I need.

  “Lou made you hand it over that night.” I grin when he grows pale. “He’s a lifelong drunk, Sean. Brain goes soft. I’m heading over there now. He tell you he’d destroy the video?” I pause and take a sip. “I bet he kept it. Probably in his desk drawer. Keys in the same place they’ve been for thirty years. Clever-by-half kind of thing.”

  He gets into my face and spits the words, “I don’t know anything.”

  “Here’s what I know,” I say. “There’s a witness putting my father and me at the scene. I’ve seen the video of her identifying us. Then, there’s a video of my father all but dragging me down the street that night. So he lied to the police about being there during the murder and after.”

  He pulls back from me. “That’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “I will find that video. It will confirm you lied to the police. Hid evidence in a murder investigation.” I gulp my beer again and enjoy his asshole exterior being subsumed by panic. “Even if you don’t go to jail, the cops aren’t going to let you keep this place open.”

  “You’re . . . you’re threatening me?” Sean steps close, the flush of beer and panic on his splotchy cheeks. “Everything I know about you and Lou. You have the nerve to threaten me?”

  I hate his smarmy face in this moment, maybe every moment. “What did you see on that video?”

  “I didn’t watch it that night, Jules. I was drinking by myself when Lou busts in through the back. I thought you left with Terrance, if you know what I mean.” He shakes his head. “Your dad bulled inside and demanded that video. I saw you with scraped knees, bloody hands, and I knew I didn’t want any part of what was happening. I happily handed that video over to him. I do not want to know your dirty secrets.”

  I exhale and lean against the brick wall. Even if I never remember, the truth is possible. There is a video of Terrance’s murder. And my father hid it from all of us.

  Suddenly, I wonder if Ethan knew about that too. “Was Reba, the Trash Bag Lady, there that night?”

  Sean nods. “She’s the one who brought you inside when you were bleeding.”

  I let out a breath of relief. Maybe Ethan did misunderstand. Or perhaps Reba was confused. “And you think everything is on that tape?”

  He sneers at the question. “I got the best damn camera system in the state. Everything will be on that video, Jules. Everything.”

  I am terrified to find out what that means, but it’s too late for fear. That’s for the innocent. I am far from that.

  “We all have to protect our own,” Sean says. “You should be thanking Lou.”

  “He hasn’t protected anyone but himself his entire life.” I hand Sean my empty glass as the wind pulls at my dress. As I hurry out of that alley, I pass the place the police taped off. It feels familiar, in that terrifying way a nightmare from months ago can still echo in our minds.

  Terrance said that restorative justice is about healing for both the victim and those who committed the crime. But the first step is the guilty admitting they were wrong to the victims.

  I know I’m ready, but it’s going to take an extra-special set of circumstances for my father to atone. Good thing dear old Dad suggested the perfect altar for our repentance.

  Chapter 34

  On my way back to my parents’ house, Ethan calls. I don’t answer—can’t, actually. Is every interaction with me poisonous? Ruinous? Does it spread to our child like it did with me, seeing my father choose alcohol, his ego, his own selfishness over all of us?

  I want to know what happened. If it’s my father—if it’s me. Or maybe Reba. But the healing must begin.

  Entering the backyard, I notice all my mother’s gardening equipment at the bottom of the pool. I almost laugh, but then I smell burning. There’s a thin stream of dark smoke pouring out of the open kitchen window. I run over to the glass sliding door and heave it open.

  “Dad?” I yell.

  The fire alarm starts to beep, and I see small flames leaping out of a pan on the stove.

  “Dad!” I scream over the sound of the alarm and grab a pot holder, rushing to the pan that’s on fire. There’s a charred steak in the middle, so I dump it into the sink and begin hitting it with the pot holder. I grab a nearby lid to stop the oxygen and end the flames.

  It finally goes out, and I huff over the sink as the alarm continues to scream. I pick up a dish towel and fan it. I open all the windows, and finally the alarm stops. I hear my own breath for a moment, then a snore. I’m not alone.

  Dad is passed out on the sunporch couch. His mouth open, full snore, empty bottle of gin within fingers’ distance. Mom leaving him is the perfect excuse to get shit-house drunk for the second time today.

  My heart rate slows, and I feel weak at the sight of my father. Part of me wants to join him, chug a bottle, feel good, then sleep and wake up feeling worse.

  I grind my jaw and head to the fridge. I find a cold Narragansett in the back.

  Standing over my father, I crack it open and try to decide what to do. Even if I could get him to wake up, it’s fifty-fifty he’s lucid enough to tell me where he’s keeping the video. Sean said it’s on a thumb drive. Rather than poke the snoring bear, I leave him collapsed in the wicker seat near the smoke and burnt meat.

  As I tread the worn hallway carpet, almost to Dad’s study, my new memories from the day of the accident return with clarity. My excitement auditioning for Swan Lake. The new ballet shoes and pale-pink leotard. I realize now I ran Santiago over, murdered him on his little bike, wearing sparkle tights and a tutu.

  That breaks my heart, and instead of charging into Dad’s office, I drop in the uncomfortable chair outside it. After setting the Narragansett on the worn carpet, I grip the wooden arms and lean all the way over so my forehead presses my knees. I sob, partly for Santiago and Alicia, but mostly for myself, for what I might have been in that tutu and what I’ve actually become here in this hallway.

  When I’m done, I can tell I won’t be crying again for a good long while. I’m wrung out, and I want to know who killed Terrance. I chug the beer and head inside.

  I’m sure I’ve been in my father’s study without him, but it’s difficult to recall when. What would I say if he were here? Yell and scream and seek comfort neither of us deserves?

  I run my fingers over the bar cart, my brain already planning its next drink. But I’ve got a slight buzz from chugging the beer, so instead I study the bookshelves, remembering how I always admired this room. Even as Dad changed, I told myself he was a great man. One I should honor and protect, even if he was the worst a father could be.

  I picture a meaningful, emotional moment with both of us hugging the other, confessing our sins and promising to do better.

  Who has the energy for lies like that anymore? Not when we’ve been living them since the wreck. Feeding this sickness with booze, ego, and enabling spouses.

  I head over to his desk with the large screen saver featuring his face and those of other bloated talk show hosts drawn as Mount Rushmore. He showed me the image every time I came to his office for six months. He explained how a fan had sent it to him. Then he laughed, explaining who’d been drawn as which president. He loved that he was Jefferson, a man who understood how to run a farm and a country. He pretended this picture was a joke, but I saw the greedy shine in his eyes, the full-of-himself purse of his lips, at a fan seeing him as he saw himself. I laughed with him each time.

  Never again.

  His main desk drawer is locked, but the key is on a small ring he keeps on his narrow bitters bottle. I pluck it off, find the right one, and open the drawer.

 
There’re revealing pictures of Debbie on top, which I could have happily lived my whole life without seeing. Paperwork with his life insurance, the mortgage (which is still substantial), and a drawing I made as a girl. I think of the walls in Kara’s room and the similarities of my silly scribbles. The drawing is dated to right before the accident. I drew a little girl with a tutu, holding her father’s hand.

  It wasn’t sentimentality that made him keep it in a drawer for thirty years. He was justifying his lie. Anytime he wavered, I imagine he pulled out that picture and told himself he was a hero for taking the blame from me.

  But what would people have said if he’d admitted he’d been drunk by 10:00 a.m., and, when his nine-year-old daughter, desperate to get to ballet, had asked for a ride, he’d drunkenly barked: If you want to get there so damn bad, drive yourself.

  She was stubborn like him. Angry like him. She’d taken the keys out of his fat hands and marched toward the door.

  He’d been laughing then, too, even as he was passing out in the back.

  In his drunken state, he chose to lie. Then he spent the rest of his life propping up those lies and destroying our family with his deceit.

  I continue digging in the drawer and find a Ziploc bag stuck in the back. My hands are shaking as I find where Dad taped the edges, and I gently pull. The clear bag contains a single sheet of paper. And it’s splattered with what looks like blood.

  I scan the words, and it’s a memorandum of understanding with Terrance’s name and a new contract for his book.

  A flash of memory from that night: the paper in my father’s fist after he grabbed it off Terrance’s body. I press my fingers into my forehead, but nothing else surfaces.

  Sarah said we had been fighting. That there was a piece of paper. Did Terrance tell me it was over and use this to prove that he was serious this time? I try to focus on the words through the specks and smears of blood. My hands shake, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

  I gasp suddenly, the sound so loud I jump in my father’s chair. I breathe and read. He was leaving our project. He was leaving me. But so what? Why would my father save this document?

  In a frenzy, I yank out the drawer, dumping everything out. I check underneath for that damn video. There’s nothing here.

  Shit.

  As I scan the room, I search for any kind of clue. Dad’s tall bookshelves catch my eye, maybe a favorite book, but as I approach, I see they’re dusty.

  I spin around to stop at the only thing that’s pristine and gets regular use: his bar. I hurry over, dropping to my knees, and run my hand along the sides and then the shelf. I find a small object taped underneath. I crouch down and locate a corner, peeling it off.

  My hand trembles so bad I drop the tape and small object on the ground and then scurry to pick it back up. I free the small plastic square from the tape. It is a thumb drive. The video of Terrance’s murder.

  Returning to my father’s chair, I almost feel as if I’m back in Dr. Potter’s office. My body is moving, breathing, and functioning, but my mind is floating. I struggle to get the thumb drive into the computer. I fumble, but finally, it’s there. The footage from the Sider that Sean gave him is loading. The truth at last.

  The small triangle appears, and I click. The clip begins on the alley door. It opens, and Terrance steps out to die.

  It’s three minutes of footage.

  For the first time since the night I can’t remember, and after a lifetime of lies, here is the truth.

  Am I surprised? Not by anything. Not anymore.

  The truth has found our family. This is our opportunity to heal the break.

  But our reckoning cannot only be at the hands of the police. There are victims to consider. We have time and opportunity on our side, if I hurry.

  I have to find my father. We have to get dressed.

  I text Phillip.

  Meet me at Terrance’s book launch at the vineyard tonight.

  I see the text bubble, then the pause.

  Phillip: Are you sure that’s a good idea?

  Me: Never been surer of anything in my life. Bring Detective Ramos as your +1.

  Phillip: See you there.

  I make myself a drink. One final gin and tonic in this house. Then I email Phillip Sean’s file. No stopping us now.

  Returning to Dad’s chair, I click the mouse and open his screens from his broadcast this morning. I listen to what he uploaded, and it’s more taunts of Terrance. More #stormingthecastle. My father hated this man. He hated that Terrance’s vision, his form of justice, was the future of the Poe Foundation.

  Terrance’s voice plays: No, Lou, you’re not listening to me. You won’t see why this process is important. How the pain from crimes can ruin lives well beyond a prison sentence or jury trial. Broken people keep on breaking others. Didn’t you see that with your crime and that boy’s death?

  Yes, Terrance, he did.

  Before I wake my father, I have to begin the healing. But as Dr. Potter says, you need to break the bone again so it can be reset.

  After positioning the microphone, I wipe under my eyes and hit the record button on the webcam. Time for the truth.

  “Hello, Lou Crew, I’ve got an extra-special episode today for all you watchers.”

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 16

  PERSONAL VLOG CHANNEL OF

  LOUIS WORTHINGTON

  INT. DESK—NIGHT

  JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH sits at a desk with a drink.

  JULIET

  Hello, Lou Crew, I’ve got an extra-special episode today for all you watchers.

  JULIET raises a drink to the camera, takes a long sip, and places the glass down. As she stares, the smile disappears.

  Thirty years ago this month, my father accidently hit a young boy on a bike, killing him instantly. I was in the back seat, my father driving me to my ballet class. Or rather, I’d been told that lie over and over and believed it was true.

  I went to a therapist today. Light therapy, a little bit like hypnosis. I was able to remember what really happened and how I’ve been lied to all my life. The secret buried deep, poisoning my family and myself.

  JULIET reaches down and shows a kid’s drawing to the camera. There’s a stick-figure little girl and a taller person with LOU written above it.

  When I was eight, I drew my father this picture of him taking me to ballet. I have a tutu on in the picture, and I wore it when Lou told me he was too drunk to drive, and if I wanted to go to ballet so bad, then I could drive myself.

  Tears shine in JULIET’s eyes, and she places the picture back down. She inhales sharply and continues.

  I’m stubborn like him. I’m a lot of things like him. I snapped up those keys, marched out of the house in my ballet slippers, and got behind the wheel of an ’87 Buick sedan. Dad joined me, so drunk he could barely walk. He was delayed because he’d made one for the road.

  She wipes a few tears.

  Dad was passed out by the time I figured out the key. I got the car on, and I remember jamming my foot hard on the gas. I had no idea how to brake. I remember thinking it’d be on the steering wheel, like my bike.

  We didn’t go far. Down the block. I managed to turn as a boy, not much older than me, was crossing on his bike. I hit him. His name was Santiago Ovalle. His mother is Alicia, and I ruined her life.

  The car went up on a curb and was stopped by a small holly bush. Dad woke up. He began to lie right away. Gave me my first drink and then my second and third. He got me drunk on gin and tonic, repeating lies about what happened until I believed they were true.

  You might think he was trying to protect me. But he was protecting himself. I wouldn’t have been in trouble. It was a terrible accident. But he was drunk. He let me drive. That’s felony murder, my friends. Or negligent homicide at the very least.

  JULIET lets out a long sigh, and her face falls. She holds up another piece of paper. This one is not a child’s drawing. In fact, it’s typed, a black squiggle of a signature at the bottom, and
blood splattered.

  Lou Crew, I found this contract in my father’s drawer. Terrance Castle brought it to the bar to show me the night he was murdered. This is his blood. My father took it out of his dead hands.

  Tonight, in a few hours, I will show you why.

  After raising the glass to the screen, JULIET takes a long sip. She scoots back in the chair.

  Dad, time to wake up. The world wants to see us. We can’t disappoint them.

  Chapter 35

  Drunk Me kept the truth hidden, and New Me has to make sure it doesn’t stay that way.

  Ethan stands in my mom’s bedroom, watching me slip on the dress he brought over for tonight. “Why are you going?” he asks again. “The board and Dez really want you and your father at their launch party?”

  “They will when they see what I have to say.” I pucker my lips and smear on the bright-red lipstick as he watches in the mirror. “It has to be done.” I see the frustration pass across his face. “Come on. It’s time to show you the truth.”

  I take his hand, and we slowly head down the dark hallway toward my father’s office. There are sounds in the house again, the Farm Family laughs coming from the kitchen, where Fitz is watching them on the iPad. The shower running and my father whistling as he gets ready for our big return to the Poe Foundation.

  I glance at Ethan and want to smooth where his eyebrows are drawn tight and ease the tension all over his face. We are in limbo, that strange moment of time before ripping up the foundation to show the rot. But he has to understand. He has to break to heal too.

  We enter Dad’s office and head to the computer. After pulling out the chair for him, I gesture for him to sit. “There are two videos. One from my session with Dr. Potter, and one from that night. The murder. Dad had it this whole time. Watch them, and then you’ll see the truth.”

  I play both videos: my confession and my father’s.

  Ethan drops his head in his hands. “Who else has seen this? We can hide it still, right? Keep our family together?”

  There’s a boyish whine in his tone, and I wonder if he asked his mother the same question when she’d leave him.